Christmas Tree Lots


Christmas trees lined like war refugees, 

a fallen army made to stand in their greens. 

Cut down at the foot, on their last leg, 


they pull themselves up, arms raised. 

We drop them like wood; 

tied, they are driven through the streets, 


dragged through the door, cornered 

in a room, given a single blanket, 

only water to drink, surrounded by joy. 


Forced to wear a gaudy gold star, 

to surrender their pride, 

they do their best to look alive.



Chris Green

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